


every little helps

by darcylindbergh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 07:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3969850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darcylindbergh/pseuds/darcylindbergh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, um. Are you going to?" John finally asks, not stepping away. Patience: <i>really</i> not one of John's virtues.</p><p>Sherlock blinks seriously. "Yes."</p><p>"Oh. Well, in your own time, then." John angles his chin up a little, trying to entice him to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every little helps

**Author's Note:**

> The title, _every little helps_ , is Tesco's primary advertising slogan.

John is in hell.

Hell is Tesco at six o'clock on a Tuesday evening, and John wouldn't be here with every single other damn Londoner if he didn't have to be, but he does, because there's no food in the flat at all--edible food, mind you--so here he is. He breathes heavily through his nose in an attempt to regulate his impatience and frustration before he just snaps and ends up punching something.

Punching something sounds amazing right now, actually, but since he’s in the fucking cereal aisle at fucking rush hour with a half a million other fucking people and the only things within arm’s reach are a box of high-fiber corn flakes to the one side and an elderly grandmother with screaming grandchild to the other, he merely clenches his fists around his basket instead.

One might suppose that John’s many experiences would have made him a supremely patient man. He went to medical school, learned to practice emergency medicine with horrifyingly limited supplies in Afghanistan, and currently spends his days listening to old men wax on about their various sagging and protruding (or, as it is, _non-protruding_ ) bits. He planned a wedding, got married, plotted his wife’s arrest for an objectively impressive list of international criminal activity, and then got divorced, all within the space of about fourteen months.

Perhaps even more indicative of how patient John might have learned to be is that his bloody flatmate is Sherlock bloody Holmes, who is currently trying to ring John because he was too busy sorting through his poncy mind-palace when John left the flat to respond to simple inquiries such as "Do you need anything from Tesco?" when prompted.

One might suppose that John’s many experiences would have made him an extremely patient man, and one would be wrong about that.

Narrowly avoiding lodging his elbow in the screaming grandchild’s face to his left as he pulls out his mobile, John answers with the very depths of his displeasure. " _What_." He pointedly does not make it sound like a question.

"Come home now," Sherlock demands down the line. John heads down the aisle, side-stepping a man in a business suit muttering to himself in front of a display of jams, and turns into the dairy section.

"What? Sherlock, what do you want, I’m in the middle of Tesco and it’s packed in here." He takes an opportune moment to launch himself through an opening between a pair of university students to snag a carton of semi-skimmed milk.

"Come home now," Sherlock repeats, and John can hear him flouncing petulantly on the sofa in the _hmmph_ that follows.

The last several years have wrought a great many changes in Sherlock, it’s true--pretending to be dead, living undercover, being shot in the chest by your best friend’s wife because you caught her threatening the media mogul who was blackmailing her, and so on, will do that to a person--but unfortunately for John Watson, those changes did not include any sort of resolution to give up sulking.

John ignores it. "I’ll be there in a few, I’m just getting the milk. Do we need anything else? Biscuits? Can you check the tomatoes, are they still good?" He dives between two middle-aged women gossiping about Emma at the office and isn’t she a bit of a slag, he can do better, to grab Sherlock’s preferred cheese. Cheese toasties are always a fairly safe bet to entice a wild consulting detective to a meal and Sherlock’s been too busy with his thoughts lately to bother much with food.

"John, forget the tomatoes. Just come home."

Something in Sherlock’s voice--which he can hear properly now as he has just managed to dodge a seven-year-old with a rogue trolley and come out into produce, where there are fewer people--makes John pull up short. He sounds almost breathless: nervous, fearful, and not really petulant at all.

"Are you all right? Sherlock, what’s going on?" John has only heard Sherlock’s voice sound like that on the sort of nights John would rather forget about (a public pool and half his weight in explosives, a hospital roof and a dull _thud_ on the pavement, a false house and a bullet through a coin) and he presses himself up against an arrangement of bananas to keep himself out of the way while he figures out what is going on. "Are you okay? Who else is there?"

"Yes, John, I’m fine, everything is fine, I just . . . need you to come home now."

Sherlock never says things like _I need you_ , and John’s heart thunders in his ribcage as the adrenaline surges through him. He abandons his basket right there with the bananas and bolts for the exit. "I’m coming, okay? Don’t move. I’m on my way, just--move it, come on, let me through--I’ll be there in a minute, okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock says, and hangs up.

John’s brain is racing ahead of him even as he rushes down the sidewalk, warring with himself over whether to break into a proper run. Sherlock said he was fine but Sherlock also said he was fine that time he shot Magnussen in the head, and that time he went into cardiac arrest in the sitting room, and last year when his mum was hospitalised with pneumonia, and he was none of those times anything _near_ to _fine_.

John has rather a lot invested into making sure Sherlock is fine. 

He wants Sherlock to be better than fine, in fact. He wants Sherlock to be _happy_.

When John moved back into Baker Street after the dust of his marriage had settled--Mary shipped off to an international prison, the baby shipped off to its real father in Liverpool--John sat down and had a long heart-to-heart with himself about what he wanted, and what his priorities were, and decided to stop fooling himself.

He wanted Sherlock in his life. He wanted Sherlock in every and any way that Sherlock might have him: friends, at least, and flatmates. And being forty-five years old and once divorced, it was high time for John to admit that if Sherlock ever indicated that he might be interested in anything more, John wanted to be the first in line, because no one suits John quite the way Sherlock suits John, and Sherlock suits John in _every_ way. Sherlock, with his deductions and intelligence and memory devices, with his sheer determination and strength of will, with his eyes shining, reflecting the rain, playing the violin and the line of his body, swaying against the music, his curls catching auburn in the firelight two nights ago--

Truthfully, the fact of it was that John had made a great many mistakes in his life and without a doubt the ones he regretted the most was the ones he had made that had kept him from Sherlock in that--in that way.

(There is a part of John that thinks this is still not beyond the realm of possibility--marrying a sociopath is a pretty good way to discover who is or is _not_ in fact a sociopath, after all, and two nights ago Sherlock had played an extremely romantic sounding piece while taking little sipping glances at John he must have thought John didn't notice--but John tries not to dwell on it.)

But now, like this, Sherlock calling John home and John barely managing to not slam into a spotty teenager as he rounds the corner onto Baker Street: John is satisfied with this, satisfied by being together even if they are never together _together_ , because he has Sherlock in his life and for once, he is John’s priority and most of the time Sherlock even allows John to make him a priority, and even with John’s stomach curdling in fear and his heart bursting with adrenaline, it’s good, this is.

The door to Baker Street is unlocked and thank god that he can hear Mrs Hudson warbling along to Elvis Presley because he won’t have to worry about her as he barrels up the stairs. He dashes into the sitting room, unsure what to expect, automatically checking for spots of blood or chemical spills or foreign and potentially dangerous smells, and finds--

Nothing.

The sitting room is empty.

Bathroom, must be: medical emergencies generally take place in the bathroom. John swings around on his heel and takes two steps to march through the kitchen and down the hall, when Sherlock himself steps directly in front of him from out of nowhere.

Not bleeding, not gasping for air, not clutching any part of himself in panic or pain. John grabs Sherlock by the shoulders and looks him over closely, ignoring an exasperated sigh.

Once satisfied, he looks up at Sherlock's face--now only inches from his own. "What’s happened? What’s wrong?"

Sherlock stares down at him, eyes interested, clearly seeking out the clues hidden on John’s shoes and in the wrinkles of his clothes. "Hmm. You ran."

John lets go of Sherlock’s shoulders to shrug his own. "You sounded . . ." He doesn't want to say frightened as Sherlock would no doubt find that offensive. Instead he settles on, "Anxious."

Sherlock gives a clipped nod. "I have been thinking," he declares softly, "and I think I've reached a conclusion."

His stare pins John's feet to the carpet; butterflies erupt into John’s stomach and float up his esophagus. That kind of focused look, on Sherlock's features, is heady and dangerous, full of _maybe_. "Yeah? About what?"

The silence stretches out for a long moment. Sherlock looks at John's mouth, which goes abruptly dry. "I think I'm going to kiss you now."

It's funny, to hear those words in Sherlock’s posh accent. To watch Sherlock's lips form around the word _kiss_ , the hint of teeth and tongue. He looks all of thirteen, gangly and awkward, and John’s stomach trips over itself with a new burst of adrenaline and elation, even while his concern and worry evaporates, leaving behind a flutter of nerves around a thick, golden feeling.

He clears his throat to stop the stupid grin that threatens his face. "Did you call me home from Tesco just to kiss me?"

Sherlock tilts his head, eyes roving John's face intently. "Yeah. I did."

"All right," John says, because it is all right, it is quite all right, it is the all right-est thing Sherlock has ever done, particularly as Sherlock is not bleeding or dying at the same time.

"Hm. Thought so."

There is a long silence. Sherlock’s eyes, far closer than usual, are distracting and mesmerizing; John wants to stare at the freckle in his iris until it gives up all its secrets. Sherlock is going to kiss him, and John will kiss him back, and it’s going to be good.

Just as soon as Sherlock, you know. Manages it.

A minute ticks by, then two.

"So, um. Are you going to?" John finally asks, not stepping away. Patience: _really_ not one of John's virtues.

Sherlock blinks seriously. "Yes."

"Oh. Well, in your own time, then." John angles his chin up a little, trying to entice him to it.

He offers a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth, to encourage him a bit. To reassure him, to tell him that John is willing to accept a kiss from him. Willing to accept this change to their relationship. Willing to accept anything, really.

There's another long silence. Sherlock holds himself stock still.

He sways in--John’s stomach flips--and sways back, without making contact, as though he’s trying to convince himself to do it. His face is so close John can see a tiny white scar just hiding in his hairline, the wrinkles beginning to form around his eyes. Sherlock can’t keep the terror from seeping across his features.

He’s not going to do it.

John suppresses the swell of disappointment against his breastbone and finally looks away.

"If you’ve reached some kind of conclusion that you _had_ to do this for me," he says, a little shakily, "don’t worry about it. It’s all right, okay? I mean, I wish you’d not called me home from Tesco, we still do need milk, but it doesn’t matter about this." John gestures between them. Sherlock is standing so close that the tips of his fingers nick across his shirt buttons. He takes a deep breath, and _out with it_. "I love you, you know--" and then Sherlock rocks forward onto the balls of his feet and kisses him.

John squeaks embarrassingly in surprise, losing the rest of the sentence ( _and I’m never leaving again anyway_ ) into Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock slides one large hand around his waist to keep him steady against the force of the kiss. Against the force of _finally, finally, finally, god this was worth waiting for_.

It’s not a particularly soft kiss, but not particularly harsh, either: just a little rough on the edges out of tension and uncertainty. Sherlock’s lips are incredible, and as soon as John gathers his scattered thoughts enough to regroup and kiss back, he sneaks his tongue out and swipes gently against them, soft and plush and real.

Sherlock tastes like tea and illicit smoke when he strokes his tongue alongside John’s, and his chest rumbles against John as he groans, tightening his grip on John’s waist as John brings his own hand up to brush along Sherlock’s neck. It’s gorgeous and perfect and--

"You don’t _really_ want to go back out for milk just now, do you?" Sherlock asks, tiny puffs of breath and John can feel his smirk against his jaw as Sherlock nudges his nose across.

"I think we can manage without for a day or so, yeah," John agrees, and kisses him again and again and again.

John is not an especially patient man, and he has been so patient for this--for the feel of Sherlock's lips and skin smooth against his, for the smell of Sherlock standing too close, for the enormous, expanding feeling of sheer relief and happiness and _desire_ suddenly being allowed--and Tesco will still be there in two hours or two days, and he has plenty of more important things to do at home just now.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr!](http://www.watsonshoneybee.tumblr.com)


End file.
